


365

by Chiyume



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Bucky Barnes 100th, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes birthday, Caring Steve, M/M, Modern Bucky Barnes, Sappy Grandpas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 05:19:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10210448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiyume/pseuds/Chiyume
Summary: When Bucky comes home, the apartment is empty, which, admittedly, isn’t exactly what he had been expecting.For as long as Bucky’s known him, Steve has never once failed to greet him when he’d get home on his birthday. Not back in Brooklyn, and certainly not since Bucky came back to live with the guy here in the Twentieth century.In which Steve has something extra special planned for Bucky's birthday, only, it's not at all what Bucky is expecting.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yay! It's Bucky's 100th birthday! Let's get celebrating! :D

 

* * *

 

When Bucky comes home, the apartment is empty, which, admittedly, isn’t exactly what he had been expecting.

For as long as Bucky’s known him, Steve has never once failed to greet him when he’d get home on his birthday. Not back in Brooklyn, and certainly not since Bucky came back to live with the guy here in the Twentieth century.

Steve takes birthdays very seriously. Even when he shouldn’t – something Bucky has experienced first hand, more than once. Like that time Steve had insisted on baking him a birthday cake, despite the fact that Steve’s the kind of guy who can’t even boil water successfully. The mere memory makes Bucky’s throat constrict, and he quickly pushes the thought away before it can grow all too vivid.

He sets his bag down by the door and toes off his shoes. It’s a weird rule, but he knows that Steve will throw a minor fit if Bucky walks in with his boots on – especially seeing as it has been pouring rain all day long.

Bucky’s jacket is still dripping a little as he hangs it up. He pulls his metal fingers through his hair, knowing that it’s wet, even though the sensation registered by his nerve endings doesn’t translate exactly the same way as it would have with his other hand. It’s still an odd feeling. Tony’s been working hard on this new sensory module for his arm, and so far, Bucky is now able to actually feel a whole range of different things compared to what he had been before. Heat, cold, and pressure had always been there, but the little things… Those are what throw him off, still.

Like being able to feel the rain, for example. Which had been the reason why he’d decided to walk home in the first place, rather than take a cab – with the left sleeve of his jacket pulled up all the way to the elbow, just because he could.

The rain is his favorite sensation so far, and he’s already relishing in the thought of the similar, falling water in the shower he’s going to take in a matter of minutes, when he spots the Post-It note that’s been stuck to the center of the hallway mirror.

It’s in Steve’s handwriting – soft and curvy – and Bucky tugs it from the mirror with a curious frown. The note says a single word.

_“Kitchen”_

Bucky snorts out a laugh, but then feels his stomach drop a little when a warning begins to blare in the back of his mind. _Please god,_ he thinks, _tell me the moron hasn’t actually tried to_ cook _anything._

He tucks the note into the back pocket of his jeans and heads down the hallway. As he reaches the kitchen, for reasons he can’t explain, he realizes that he’s _sneaking_ . Inside his own damn _home_ . The thought has him feeling more than a little silly, and he quickly straightens up, telling himself firmly that he had _not_ just been about to _peek around the doorframe_ while he determinedly strides up to the kitchen table.

The first emotion that hits him is dread. Honest and pure. Then he sees the cardboard box by the counter and realizes that the cake sitting on top of the kitchen table has been bought. From a legit bakery, by the looks of it _._ He breathes out a long, discreet breath, relaxing again.

There are flowers on the table too. Red roses. Bucky chuckles as he walks up to read the second Post-It note that’s attached to the vase they’re in.

_“Couldn’t find sunflowers. Hope these work.”_

Bucky purses his lips while holding back another snorted laugh. Sunflowers. Steve knows they’re Bucky’s favorite flower – not that Bucky’s ever _told_ him that explicitly. Like everything else, Steve just _knows_ , and Bucky hasn’t found a reason yet to ask him how.

At the bottom of the note there’s a little arrow signaling him to turn the note over, and as he does, his heart gives an excited little thump inside his chest at the word written on the back of it.

_“Bedroom”_

Bucky smirks, and carefully puts the note back down on the table.

“Bedroom, huh…” he mumbles under his breath. As he turns to walk out of the kitchen, he wonders what kind of sappy, romantic cliché of a movie Steve’s watched to come up with all this. Not that Bucky minds it. Not that he’ll ever _tell_ Steve that he doesn’t mind it.

The door to the bedroom is closed when he gets there, and Bucky only hesitates for a split second before he reaches out to push it open, slowly.

The bedroom’s empty.

Stepping over the threshold, Bucky frowns at the lack of Steve he finds inside, up until his eyes fall on the item that’s lying in the middle of the bed. At first he thinks that it’s a box of some kind, but then he realizes that it’s a book.

The book is thick, bright blue, and with three numbers embossed on the cover in matte silver.

_“365”_

Bucky’s confusion remains as he warily picks up the book, turning it over. There’s nothing else to be found. No summary on the back, no new Post-Its…. No clues as to what it contains at all, other than the number on the front.

“Damn punk,” Bucky mutters, “what have you done this time?”

He flips the book open, and freezes, staring down at the text written in Steve’s writing on the front page.

_“Day 1. The way you blow on your coffee before you drink it.”_

The quote is followed by a graphite sketch of…well, of _Bucky_ , leaning against the kitchen counter of their apartment with a steaming cup raised to his mouth, his lips pursed in what can only be interpreted as a soft blow. It’s one of Steve’s drawings, no doubt about it, and as Bucky turns the page, a new, similar display is revealed.

_“Day 2. The way you scrunch up your nose when you laugh.”_

_“Day 3. Watching you brush your teeth at night.”_

Again, the quotes are each followed by sketches. Bucky features in both of them – one where he’s depicted laughing, the aforementioned nose-scrunch very much in place, and another where he’s leaning over the bathroom sink with his toothbrush hanging out from the corner of his mouth.

He continues, page after page, and they’re all filled with similar content.

_“Day 12. When you sing in the shower, forgetting that I can hear you.”_

_“Day 46. The times you let me hold the door open for you.”_

_“Day 67. The way you blush when I call you cute.”_

He gets as far as day seventy-nine before he has to close his eyes. He tells himself that the lump in his throat is nothing but his imagination, that the tremble on his lip doesn’t mean a thing, but he also knows that he’s lying. The wet burn he can feel rising behind his eyelids tells him as much.

It’s a sketchbook, a soft voice in the back of his head informs him. And a diary. _Steve’s_ diary. And every day for the past year, Steve’s looked at Bucky and decided to write down a reason why he—

Bucky drags a shaky breath into his lungs, and opens the book again to stare down at the next page.

_“Day 80. Because even when I have nothing, I have you.”_

He hides the whine that rises up in the back of his throat by clearing it, loudly, while pressing his lips together so hard he can practically feel them turn pale. Then, warm, steady hands slowly wrap around his waist from behind, and Bucky hangs his head down with a shudder when Steve leans in to press a long, tender kiss against the back of his neck.

Bucky closes the book and exhales with a sigh as he tips his head back to rest it against Steve’s shoulder, closing his eyes once more. “You’re a menace, Rogers,” he rasps, and next to his ear, Steve chuckles while hugging around Bucky’s chest a bit tighter.

“Do you like it?” he murmurs softly, and Bucky nods. The motion is barely visible, but he knows that Steve can feel it.

“I wanted to give you something special,” Steve confesses, and Bucky clears his throat again. And if he sniffles afterwards, it’s only because some of his hair has fallen into his face, nothing else.

“Well, you succeeded,” he declares hoarsely. “I don’t—” He closes his mouth when the sentence begins to shake apart under his breath, and he’s grateful when Steve doesn’t push him for anything other than that. Instead, Bucky just sags back against the comforting width of Steve’s chest as Steve gently begins to rock them slowly from side to side, pressing fluttering kisses along the skin of Bucky’s neck and shoulder.

“Happy Birthday, Buck,” he whispers, and the corner of Bucky’s mouth twitches up in a smile when Steve moves one of his hands to twine his fingers with the ones on Bucky’s left hand, his touch warm against the silvery metal.

That’s when Bucky admits to himself that he’s made the wrong call. Because it’s not the rain, he decides. Has never been.

It’s Steve.

_Steve_ is his favorite sensation.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, guys <3 
> 
> And a big Happy Birthday to James Bucky ("I'm a big sap but will never admit it out loud") Barnes <3


End file.
